The Better Country
by irishais
Summary: One last chance to reconnect, just to see if they're still human. Seifer, Rinoa, drabble series.
1. senses

_A/N: A series of interconnected drabbles inspired by "Pathways," since this particular pairing had so many options, and not nearly enough fic. Alternating POV.  
_

_**the better country  
**_

_-irishais-_

**1. senses**

It's hard to sit in a restaurant and imagine that everyone isn't talking about you, even though you've got that hat pulled down over your head and the scar's hidden (not worn with pride--_you should see the other guy_).

Difficult as hell to take the train to Timber in the first place, where everyone knows your name, knows your face, and would skin you alive if given a chance. You did it though, and now you're here (no beer in this place, nothing to try to calm the nerves but fizzy cherry soda.)

The hardest thing, of course, was answering the phone when no one had your number but telemarketers (female, warm, polite, probably trying to sell some siding even though it's an apartment and where the hell are you going to put it?).

She walks in and strikes you

_Deaf_ (how the hell could you forget that sound?)

_Dumb _(you should see the other guy, the one with his arm around her waist in all the pretty newspaper photos.)

_Blind _(can't convince yourself you didn't spend night after night trying to imagine her like she was really yours to have.)


	2. fifteen s t e p s

**2. fifteen s t e p s**

The first thing you can think of is dancing, and then the second thing is that there's a mile of floor between your shiny new shoes (at least you feel good about the clothes) and a pair of scruffy sneakers propped up on the opposite chair.

Prance, fouette, twist and turn and break your ankle slipping on a puddle of ketchup (slick like blood against the floor).

He'd like that, probably.

Fifteen steps, and it's the longest walk of your life, so you do it with a smile and a wave (damned if you're going to make a fool of yourself this time).

Thirteen steps and you're not sure if there's anything that can be said.

Eleven steps (still close enough to the door to turn and run.)

_...eight. __**seven**__. six_...

The heels beat out a solemn rhythm against grimy linoleum (your own personal hangman's march.)

..._three. __**two. **__one..._

"Is this seat taken?" (to the gallows with a smile.)


	3. pride::fall

_A/N: Something a wee bit different. Double-drabble, both POVs. _**  
**

**3. pride::fall**

_I'm going to show you a series of inkblots. Tell me what you see_.

**One: **_ink_

**Two: **_ink_

**Three: **_ink, dammit. _

_Would you at least try? _

Association was never his forte, although if he had to guess at it, the way she's walking means that he has become her executioner (her pride's firing squad).

"Is this seat taken?"

_Yes/No_

Fifty-fifty chance of being right (better odds than a therapist's inkblots).

She hadn't expected him to look so..._normal_.

_I'm going to show you a series of inkblots. Tell me what you see. _

**Four: **_balamb_

**Five: **_squall_

**Six: **_gunblade. _

_That's interesting. Why do you say that? _

She sits when he moves his shoes, checking for dirt on the seat (she's always hated a mess, but never had any problems throwing herself straight into one).

"You look good." (war's over)

"So do you." (thought you were _dead_)

"What do you want?" (so did i)

She fiddles with a napkin, bites her lip, looks off into space, studies the cup of soda in front of him like it's the most interesting thing in the world. He hadn't expected her to look so..._normal_.

"I didn't think you'd come."

He shrugs, stares over her shoulder, a cheap clock on the wall tells him time is flying at new low rates.

"Why wouldn't I?" (and pride comes before the fall, but then they stick together.)


	4. download upload

**4. download/upload**

She is playing with a packet of sugar. It's normal, too normal, the way she tears at the corner until there's a little pile of white grains in front of her, a nervous habit from as far back as you can remember. You wish you could remember less.

"Become a SeeD yet?"

At least it's not shredding napkins (shredding your pride instead).

"Why would I?"

(Why not?)

Pluck the torn and crumpled paper packet from her hand (driving you _insane_). Touching skin, white-hot, only a second (long enough to burn). You pull away. Once burned, twice shy, isn't it?

You don't know. You still like to light up matches, watch them burn down and leave ash-marks and blisters on your skin.

"I'm sorry."

A battered shield against (what might have been).

She has no reason to say that, the words hitting the table hard--**thunk--**rocks dropping from the ceiling (the sky is falling).

(The sky is falling.)

Silence, buzzing (feed**back**). A white-noise hiss (**dis**connect). You've always been so good at alienating people (why stop now?)


	5. hiss silence

**5. hiss(**silence)

Black knight, white knight.

King, pawn?

His fingers drum out a staccato beat against dingy painted plastic. (How long have we been playing this game?)

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I didn't mean to leave like that. To go to Balamb. I didn't...think you would follow."

He laughs, and the sound is bitter(sweet) in your ears, a poisoned delight (you didn't think you'd hear it again). His fingertips fall--thud-_thud-__**thud**_**-**_thud_-thud--onto the table, and the restaurant seems as serious as a war room.

(Next move, General?)

Thud**thud**_thud_.

You have to know, and it's the only way _to_ know (fingers brushing soft blonde hairs on the back of a hand).

"I'm sorry."

(fingers curling around yours, tight, warm, the rough pad of his thumb against lily white skin).

"I have to catch the last train."

There's nothing here to calm your nerves but a cup of flat cherry soda and a sugar packet torn all to bits--a flag to claim this land

(and nothing but a rush of white noise where your heart might have been.)


End file.
